With Only the Stars As Witness
by write-or-left
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world, disease runs rampant, and distorted creatures prey on humanity’s leftovers. When a young child is bitten and lays dying, his family searches desperately for a cure. The only thing that can save him is a living legend—a girl blessed with extraordinary power. But in a world filled with darkness, even so-called angels have something to fear.


Whispers echoed in the crumbling courtyard, broken only by a soft sob here, a cough there. Two of the whisperers stood to the side of a stone bench, watching.

"He doesn't have much time left," the man murmured, as a young woman bent over the bench. Her hoarse cries went unheard by the boy who lay there, small chest barely rising.

"What more can we do?" Another woman asked, desperation creeping into her voice.

"Have the messages gone out?" the man asked.

"All of them. None have replied."

He sighed. "If only we knew where she was . . . Then he might have a chance."

Another woman looked up at his words, hope lighting her brown eyes. "Would she come? If she knew, would she heal him?"

She was shushed by the other two, glancing at the distraught mother. "Do not get your hopes up," the man chided. "Lyanna's least of all."

The woman, abashed, glanced around before asking quietly, "But would she?"

The man sighed. "She has not been seen in a long time. Too long. But . . ."

"She might," the first woman murmured.

The man did not answer. He cast his gaze around, taking in the crumbling stone benches, grasses and weeds escaping their concrete bonds, broken half-walls and collapsed pillars. The boy, dying before his mother's eyes. The whispers. The moon shone over it all.

_The moon_. He felt a surge of anger and helplessness overtake him. Oft known for its affiliation with healing, the moon. Yet now, it looked down upon their sad gathering coldly.

How could they seek help from a girl who was hardly more than a living legend? Who wandered where she wished, but was never found when it mattered? She was everything they needed, and yet . . . yet she was as far from them as the stars.

The man looked again at the boy and felt his determination rekindle. "We will send out riders," he murmured. The two women turned to him. He met their gazes, refusing to let them see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. _What if she doesn't want to be found? What then? _

He shook it off. "We will find her, even if I must go myself."

The man looked up to the sky, searching the moon's cratered surface, listening to the weakening coughs of his son.

"We will find her."

Sickness was in the air.

The girl could feel it; it burned her lungs, made her eyes water. She stared up at the school. Here, then.

She nudged her horse into a gallop. _Hurry._

That voice had never led her astray. She followed it now, whispering to her steed. The mare picked up her pace, throwing her head. As they entered the wide entrance of the school, an open expanse of concrete, she heard a call go up. She ignored their hails to stop. As soon as she was in the courtyard, she pulled her horse to a stop and slid off. Her guards did the same. She tied the reins to the handle of a door, its glass window panes shattered.

Several people ran up to her. Their eyes were wide. Hopeful. She searched out the leader, spotting him immediately. From under her hood, her gray eyes picked out the patches in his clothes, the gauntness of his face. The desperation in his eyes.

"Take me to him," she said, her voice soft and loud, an order and a request all at once. The man wasted no time, leading her beneath what used to be a bridge, spanning the two sides of the school. Ripped cables hung from it; broken glass littered the ground. Her boots crunched as she walked.

They climbed to small flights of cracked stairs. As they crested the top and turned the corner, she found a solemn sight.

The girl never broke stride. She swept forward and knelt at the bench, her periwinkle cloak pooling around her. The pebbled ground poked at her bare knees mercilessly.

She ignored it, passing her hand over the boy's body. He was weak. Closing her eyes, she saw them in her mind: a dying child, barely clinging to life, and her. Her, the girl who would save him.

She pressed one gauntleted hand to his forehead, the other passing over his body. They began glowing, and she saw in her mind's eye the sickness: a writhing, black shadow, hardly more than smoke. It spread through the child's body, held at bay just so. It had already taken half the heart, red and black battling for dominion. The child's will was the only thing holding it back.

The girl opened her eyes, her brown hair falling forward. The silver bangles on her arms shone in the light, the carved shape of the moon flashing as she readjusted.

"Well?" A woman demanded. The girl could sense the heartache within her. _The mother, _that voice whispered. "Can you save him?"

The girl took her hands away, flexing her fingers. "It is strong."

She replaced her hands before the mother could protest, summoning her power. Blessed, they'd called her. A miracle. She who could heal at a touch. It wasn't that simple.

It never was, as her hand flowed once more. She sought out the sickness, finding it pooled in the child's stomach. "Keep him still," she said. The people—his family—rushed to do so as she raised his shirt, exposing the wound. A bite, black with poison and oozing blood. The child groaned, barely audible.

"Wait!" The man called suddenly. The girl's hand stilled. "I—I'm sorry, but . . . Don't you need some sort of . . . Of conduit? Like a crystal ball?"

Her guards shot the man a disdainful look. "Those are crutches," the girl answered, her gray eyes on the boy. "Power does not need a crutch."

Her hand flowed, brighter than before. A different light. A colder light—like that of the stars that shone above.

_Only an outlet_. Her voice echoed in their minds, but her attention was on the sickness. It sensed her presence, and it wanted her gone. She gritted her teeth, pushing back, fighting it. Sweat beaded on her forehead. _It was never that easy_.

It was very strong—but she was stronger. Inch by inch she pulled it out, her hand shining over the bite wound. The boy writhed beneath his human bonds, voiceless cries leaving his open mouth.

The sickness pooled in her hand as she pulled it her mind, with her power, _willing_ it out of him, wispy as smoke and black as death. It clung to its host, and the girl panted through her teeth and _yanked_, and a mass of it flew out of the bite. Blood spattered on her face.

It coalesced in her palm, a tiny version of what had bitten the boy. It snapped at her, scratching her skin with minuscule claws.

The girl clenched her hand and killed it. Sweat dripped down her face, off the tip of her nose. _Never easy . . . _

_ Only an outlet. Only an outlet. _

Her guard provided a glass bottle. She funneled the smoke into the bottle and sealed it with a wave of her hand. The family watched in awed silence.

A band of silver markings appeared on the clear glass surface, the moon's phases making their way over the bottle.

The girl stowed the sickness away and rose. As she did so, she stumbled a bit, lightheaded, and her hood slid to the side. She whirled away and reaffixed it, but not before the onlookers caught sight of her face.

A silver band around her head, the sun and moon's cycles circling it. Her eyes, almond-shaped and gray like thunderstorms. Her hair, streaked with a slash of white. But none of these things were what captured the people's attention, what made the women gasp and the men take a step back.

The girl turned away without a word, but she did not leave. Not as a raspy voice fixed her to the spot, calling out.

"Wait."

Still she did not turn, not even as the boy struggled to rise amid the cries of his family. She felt his eyes upon her and knew they were a brilliant blue. He did not speak again.

The girl left, taking the sickness with her, and traveled across the ravaged world until she had returned to her home. Not the place where she had been born; no, that was long gone. This was her _home_, the place she felt most safe. Where she felt most real.

She passed under the low willow branches and knelt at the edge of the pond. The sky was reflected upon its surface. The girl removed her hood slowly, and for the first time in a long time, let herself see her reflection.

_You're a monster. _

_ Ugly. Hideous! _

_ Leave. Leave! _

A jagged black slash over the left side of her face, spreading over her eye, stopping short of her jawline. Her hands trembled. She clenched them in the soft moss at the pond's shore, struggling to meet her own gaze.

Blessed. Capable of healing at a touch, but not her own wound. A _miracle._

The girl took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut against the bitter tears.

_I am safe. I am whole. I am _real.

She repeated the words to herself, her soft whispers echoing faintly in the lonely grove. They faded into the air on the wings of the wind, and when they came back, they were the same and different.

_You are safe. You are whole. You are real. _

The girl let loose the breath she'd been holding, casting her gaze to the sky. But the voice spoke to her again, and she reluctantly looked at the reflection once more.

Her face was still the same, but that voice murmured, passing from one ear to the other, so close she could swear she felt a breeze stir her hair, and she obeyed. She passed her hand through her reflection, watching it ripple and waver. It did not change.

_Faith, _the voice whispered, feminine and gentle and fierce. _Faith in yourself. A scar does not change the soul that is inside. _

The girl closed her eyes. Faith . . .

_I am safe. _

_ You are whole. _

_ I am—_

Real.

_Fin. _


End file.
